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      All praise to the First Sultan,

      Mahmood the Ghaznavide!

      His fame be like the firmament,

      As moveless and as wide!

      Mahmood, who saw before him

      Pagoda'd Bramah fall —

      Twelve times he swept the orient earth

      From Bagdad to Bengal;

      Twelve times amid their Steppes of ice

      He smote each Golden Horde7—

      Round the South's sultry isles twelve times

      His ships resistless pour'd;

      Mahmood – his tomb in Ghazna

      For many an age shall show

      The mighty mace with which he laid

      Du's hideous idol low.

      True soldier of the Prophet!

      From Somnauth's gorgeous shrine

      He tore the gates of sandal-wood,

      The carven gates divine;

      He hung them vow'd, in Ghazna,

      To Allah's blest renown —

      Trophies of endless sway they tower,

      For unto earth's remotest hour

      What boastful man may hope the power

      Again to take them down?

      All praise to the First Sultan,

      Mahmood the Ghaznavide!

      His wars are o'er, but not the more

      His sovereign cares subside:

      From morn to noontide daily

      In his superb Divan

      He sits dispensing justice

      Alike to man and man.

      What though earth heaves beneath him

      With ingot, gem, and urn,

      Though in his halls a thousand thrones

      Of vanquish'd monarchs burn;

      Though at his footstool ever

      Four hundred princes stay;

      Though in his jasper vestibules

      Four hundred bloodhounds bay —

      Each prince's sabre hafted

      With the carbuncle's gem,

      Each bloodhound's collar fashion'd

      From a rajah's diadem? —

      Though none may live beholding

      The anger of his brow,

      Yet his justice ever shineth

      To the lofty and the low;

      O'er his many-nation'd empire

      Shines his justice far and wide —

      All praise to the First Sultan,

      Mahmood the Ghaznavide!

      The morn to noon is melting

      On Ghazna's golden domes;

      From the Divan the suppliant crowd,

      The poor, the potent, and the proud,

      Who sought its grace with faces bow'd,

      Have parted for their homes.

      Already Sultan Mahmood

      Has risen from his throne,

      When at the Hall's far portal

      Stands a Stranger all alone, —

      A man in humble vesture,

      But with a haughty eye;

      And he calls aloud, with the steadfast voice

      Of one prepared to die —

      "Sultan! the Wrong'd and Trampled

      Lacks time to worship thee,

      Stand forth, and answer to my charge,

      Son of Sebactagi!

      Stand forth!" —

      The brief amazement

      Which shook that hall has fled —

      Next moment fifty falchions

      Flash round the madman's head,

      And fifty slaves are waiting

      Their sovereign's glance to slay;

      But dread Mahmood, with hand upraised,

      Has waved their swords away.

      Once more stands free the Stranger,

      Once more resounds his call —

      "Ho! forth, Mahmood! and hear me,

      Then slay me in thy hall.

      From Oxus to the Ocean

      Thy standards are unfurl'd

      Thy treasury-bolts are bursting

      With the plunder of the world —

      The maids of soft Hindostan,

      The vines by Yemen's Sea,

      But bloom to nurse the passions

      Of thy savage soldiery.

      Yet not for them sufficeth

      The Captive or the Vine,

      If in thy peaceful subjects' homes

      They cannot play the swine.

      Since on my native Ghazna

      Thy smile of favour fell,

      How its blood, and toil, and treasure

      Have been thine, thou knowest well!

      Its Fiercest swell thine armies,

      Its Fairest serve thy throne,

      But in return hast thou not sworn

      Our hearths should be our own?

      That each man's private dwelling,

      And each man's spouse and child,

      Should from thy mightiest Satrap

      Be safe and undefiled?

      Just Allah! – hear how Mahmood

      His kingly oath maintains! —

      Amid the suburbs far away

      I deemed secure my dwelling lay,

      Yet now two nights my lone Serai

      A villain's step profanes.

      My bride is cursed with beauty,

      He comes at midnight

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